It couldn't please me more
by madelinear
Summary: Christmas fic involving a materialistic poet and a holier-than-thou courtesan.


It couldn't please me more  
By: Sugar Princess  
  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own anything- not the characters- they belong to Bazziekins, and not the song, which belongs to whomever wrote 'Cabaret'. I pruned and edited, though.  
Author's note: So this is my semi-happy Christmas fic... yeah.  
Dedication: To Lindsa.  
  
  
  
A frost hung over all of Montmartre, the night dull with bad omens. Streets were dark, for most lights refused to stay in the underworld, except those who were brazen enough to be claimed by electricity. The stars, for fear, hid too high in the sky, but the bolder moon shone on, almost as if to show the stars up. The air was brisk and frigid, and even it did not wish to remain in Montmartre too long, as if it knew what was going to happen. He rushed through the village, whipping around corners and whistling through unfortunates' coats, hissing a frantic warning: 'beware! beware!'  
  
But Satine was not aware of the disposition of the sky, the fear of the stars, nor the anxiety of the wind. It was almost morning, and she was running across the street up to the home of her penniless poet.  
  
Had she stopped to catch her breath in the shadows that crowded Montmartre, she might have felt the icy fingers of death that lingered over her rosy cheeks and that curled around the base of her neck, trying to peel away her crimson scarf that was wrapped around her hair and her throat. She might have felt the icy breath of Jack Frost and heard his whispered prophesies.  
  
Maybe if she had felt it, maybe if she had heard them, she would have brushed it off. Cassandra repeatedly foresaw disasters, and she was called a lunatic and ignored. Unpleasant divinations are something no one ever wants to believe, especially by those who are so blissfully happy that they haven't room in their hearts to think of unhappiness.  
  
And Satine was desperately happy. Had she heard the words of the wind, she would have brushed them aside and continued on her merry way.  
  
She didn't bother to knock, instead flinging the door open and rushing into the arms of her beloved. They kissed; a sweet, loving sensation that made Satine feel safe. "Merry Christmas," she whispered.  
  
He was breathing heavily. Satine looked up at the sprig of greenery in his doorway. "Mistletoe. Tradition." She offered by way of explanation.  
  
Christian smiled. "Merry Christmas, darling. Where's my present?"  
  
Laughing, she pushed him away. As she took off her camel-colored woolen coat and her scarlet scarf, she said: "Greedy little thing! Who says I have anything for you?"  
  
Christian pouted before he pointed at the package under her arm. "That does. It's a present, it's in my home-"  
  
"Garret," she interjected teasingly.  
  
"Garret," he amended, rolling his eyes, "It's in my garret, and that means it's mine."  
  
"Where's your Christmas spirit, love?" she asked, letting a dazzling smile cross her face. "The holidays aren't all about gifts. Christmas is about love and ... getting together with those we love and-"  
  
"Presents."  
  
"Where's my gift?" She demanded of the materialistic poet in retaliation. "If you're so sure I have yours, where's mine?"  
  
"On the bed!" he retorted defensively to the mocking courtesan.  
  
Satine turned, and sure enough, there was the package on the bed that had the oddest shape Satine had ever seen.  
  
It was a cylinder, or so it appeared, with bumps all up and down the side, and a top that Satine didn't know what to make of- it seemed to be a mass of spikes. "What is it?" she asked in a voice that relayed exactly how ridiculous she thought it looked.  
  
Christian forgot his own present in order to protect his scorned offering. Adopting a hurt tone, he picked up the strange package and hugged it. "It's a present! And it's special."  
  
Satine cocked her head to the side, raising an eyebrow to show her skepticism. A hand slid up to rest on her hip, holding her own contribution to her chest.  
  
She loved Christmas. Satine loved receiving gifts, and, for the first time, she had exactly been excited at the prospect of finding the perfect gift. For Christian of course. She had even thought giddily that this was exactly what she wanted to be doing five, ten, twenty years from then- picking out gifts for Christian.  
  
If she had let herself listen to the wind, and if she had, if she had believed it, she would have realized that she wouldn't have endless Christmases with Christian, nor were her days with him the endless eternity that all lovers felt they had out of sheer wishful thinking.  
  
But one must wonder what Satine would have done with this information if she had known. What could she have done? What will be, will be; the fates had decided, the screw had been turned- there is no escaping the inevitable.   
  
Destiny is not an easy thing to elude for long. And Satine had danced around it too many times.  
  
Delightfully unaware, Satine struck up a bargain. "Alright. I'll give you your present, and you can give me mine."  
  
Nodding and quipping, "That is the normal state of events surrounding gift-giving," Christian tossed the abnormal gift at his beloved and caught his own gift- a heavy rectangle. He sat down with it, placing it on his lap. He tore the wrapping away and found a beautiful notebook that had a small golden windmill embossed the corner. He ran his fingers over the design and opened it to find only smooth, creamy papers- that were completely blank.  
  
Satine was ignoring her present and watching him anxiously. "Do you like it? It's like a journal- I thought that you jot things down when you were away from the typewriter... if you hate it, darling-"  
  
"No," he breathed, grinning broadly at her. "It's beautiful, sweetness." He let loose a laugh, one that was so goldenly dulcet that the wind it touched warmed up, forming an aura of sunshine around him. "Wherever did you find it?"  
  
She laughed as well. "I found the book at a stationary shop and had a friend put the moulin on it. As a joke."  
  
"Well, I love it." He replied resolutely, and Satine blushed with pleasure, bringing her hands to her cheeks.  
  
"Lift it." She instructed, and he complied, picking up the notebook to reveal a rectangular silver frame with a publicity still of Satine inside.  
  
It was a beautiful picture. She was stretched across something with her head back, her vibrantly red tresses morphed to a mute black of the film. But nothing, not even the photograph, could mute her beauty.  
  
She was wearing a silken robe, which Christian knew was pink, because it now resided in his apartment, and was used so much by both of them that there was bound to someday be a quarrel over who it belonged to someday- if the wind would be silenced.  
  
"Oh, Satine." He said simply, looking at the real Satine before turning back to the photograph, motioning for her to come closer. When she stood next to him, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, relinquishing his hold on the frame to capture Satine's lips in his own.  
  
Before things grew out of control, Christian pulled away and asked: "What about your present?"  
  
Satine moved off of his lap and sat down beside him, poking at the package curiously. "I'm almost afraid of it." She admitted wryly. "This is by far the most bizarre shaped present I have ever received."  
  
"Who cares?" Christian exclaimed. "C'est une cadeau, chérie, arrête des foutaises et ouvert! Sheesh."  
  
"Fine," she replied, and with that, she tore open the package.  
  
And gasped.  
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her jaw dropping. "Oh!"  
  
"Do you like it?" Christian asked apprehensively.  
  
He needn't of been worried. The delight was apparent on Satine's face, and for a moment, the chill dissipated.  
  
"If you bought me diamonds  
If you bought me pearls  
If you bought me roses  
Like some other gents   
Might bring to other girls  
It couldn't please me more  
Than the gift I see-" She paused, and when she spoke, her voice was heavy with awe.  
  
"A pineapple for me."  
  
Satine held the pineapple up, careful of the pricks, admiring the tropical fruit. "Ah!" She exclaimed. "I can hear Hawaiian breezes blow!"  
  
"It's from California," Christian replied sheepishly.  
  
"Even so!" cried Satine loyally. "How am I to thank you?"  
  
Christian waved a hand dismissively. "Kindly let it pass."   
  
Satine waved it in front of him temptingly "Would you like a slice?"  
  
"That might be nice," he admitted, before wincing and putting a hand to his stomach. "But frankly, it would give me gas."  
  
"Then we should leave it here,  
Not to eat, but see.  
A pineapple--  
For me." Satine turned to his joyously, her face alight with happiness.  
  
Both knew the whole situation was absurd- what kind of a gift was a fruit? True, it was tropical, and here it was the dead of winter- but all the same, it was completely ridiculous.  
  
Which made it all the more wonderful.  
  
"From me." Christian replied, sidling closer and sliding an arm around her waist.  
  
Satine jumped up, clutching the precious pineapple to her chest.  
  
"But you must not bring me any more pineapples. It's through, you hear?  
It's not proper. It's a gift the young man must present to his-" Satine stopped delicately, looking down at the floor- "lady love. It makes me blush--"  
  
Christian was quick to stand up, faster than she as his arm slid around her fast as lightning. With the other hand he swept his arm majestically over the view of Paris his garret offered.  
  
Not too shabby for a penniless poet.  
  
"But no one, no one in all Paris is more deserving. If I could I would fill an entire room with pineapples--"  
  
Giving him a wary look, Satine went out to the window, letting the cool glass keep her safe from the wind that scratched and pawed at the windowpane, wanting her. Oblivious, she sighed. "A pineapple-"  
  
"For you--"  
  
"From you-" Satine smiled once again, and cradling the pineapple in one arm, put the other hand to her cheek. "I'm overwhelmed!"  
  
Christian stepped behind her, and no one noticed when the cherished pineapple dropped to the ground whilst they kissed.  
  
The wind, silenced, swept away from Montmartre, leaving a bitter chill that would hover about the less-than-reputable neighborhood until the spring. 


End file.
